Pompous Poppycock

It's like there's two types of people; those who question everything, and those who accept things. I wonder at how one could be content in the present society. The thing is, how could they be any other way, but be me...and I'm not recommending that to the masses. Everyone wears a mask, it's just some people's are glued on tighter. There's a price to pay for questioning. I feel defective, like I'm wired incorrectly, beyond repair.

The thing is with my depression, that there's no light at the end of the tunnel. I can't bear knowing that my depression is perpetual with no end in sight. You think you should be rewarded, like we know you've suffered here's your palace. However, life is an ongoing battle, one that induces weariness when there's no means of winning. Happiness is elusive, and when grasped fleeting. I've been writing myself around in circles for sometime now, and I've found it frustrating but it's impossible to verbalise the way I feel...physically in pain. As if something ugly, and threatening is lurking inside me trying to gnaw it's way out.

And then there's my family. It's like I can't talk to them without fighting, and it's funny because they'll never know how I feel about them. How they're the only thing keeping me alive...but then that's just another thing to blame them for right....my persistent mortality.

However, it's true that I embrace my depression as one of the main aspects of my character. I wouldn't be me without it, I'd just be everyone else but at what price. Is that how I justify myself? I am woman, hear me roar in pain...